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Oxford- 1602
As far back as he could remember, Aziraphale had found comfort in the written word.
There was a certain peace and safety in books, a predictability, the understanding of what one was getting into. It was a predictabilty he wished extended itself into his own living story. Tragedies would end in tears, comedies in laughter, romances with the couple getting together…
Not that he read many love stories of course. Not at all. And his wishes for predictability certainly didn’t include such gaudy things as romance .
Shakespeare didn’t count.
As he puttered around the half-empty shelves of the budding library, lost in his thoughts, he failed to notice an older gentleman approaching him, only realising he had company when the gentleman chuckled.
“Ah, I know that frown very well my friend,” Thomas Bodley, the man in charge of restoring the old Oxford library, laughed. “What ails you?”
Aziraphale tried to smooth over his aforementioned frown, reluctant to admit his troubles out loud. It meant that they were real and not some fabrication he could simply miracle away. Giving something a voice gave it power, giving it words meant you had to give it attention. No. Best put those things aside.
“The latest donation of books came in a terrible condition,” he confessed. This was true, and it was bothering him. So, technically, it wasn’t a lie. Technically. “I would feel most uncomfortable cataloguing them before I went about restoring them. Although I know we are behind schedule, if the library is due to open in November. I don’t want to put us back further.”
Thomas nodded, rubbing at his beard, and Aziraphale almost wilted in relief that his excuse was accepted. “It is a pickle, to be sure. Your skills at cataloguing know no bounds. However it has been a concern of mine, too. If this library is to be the place I envision, it wouldn’t do to have books falling apart at the seams. How long would it take you to restore the books?”
“Not as long as you may think, but it would still set me back a little,” Aziraphale said, fiddling with his cape.
Thomas sighed and, for a brief moment, he saw how tired the man was. Aziraphale had the advantage of not needing sleep, but the bags under Bodley’s eyes were deep. “Well perhaps it might set you back longer than you may think. I came to fetch you. My wife has ordered us a night off.”
Aziraphale couldn’t help but grin at that. As much as he desperately wanted to stay in the library, amongst the books, where things were safe, he knew how much Ann Bodley cared for her husband.
The grin was swiftly wiped off his face when theatre tickets were waved in front of him. Accepting one, his heart dropped to his stomach.
Of all the plays…
“The show starts this evening at seven. I trust you will be there?”
“Oh-” Aziraphale gave a start, shaking his head slightly even as his mouth formed the words “Yes- yes of course. This is most generous. Thank you.”
Bodley left shortly after that and, as the afternoon went on, many of the workers retired for the day. This was a common occurrence in the library. Aziraphale was often the one to stay behind until the last moment to lock up. More often than not, he would stay in the library until the sun rose.
Organising the books he wished to restore, Aziraphale sat down at one of the large mahogany study tables in the centre of the library, trying to calm himself down.
This was exactly the kind of thing he’d meant when he wished that the predictability and beauty in stories extended into his reality. If only life could be so kind. But sometimes it felt as if it were actively working against him…
Though he ought not to continue with that line of thought. It seemed blasphemous.
Pulling the theatre ticket from his pocket, Aziraphale clutched it, read the title of the play over and over again, as if he could miracle it to be something- anything- different.
But no. It remained. And anyway, he’d be reprimanded for such a frivolous miracle.
Hamlet- A Touring Production.
Aziraphael groaned, putting his head in his hands, willing his mind and emotions to calm themselves to no avail.
It didn’t make any sense. The play had barely been out a year, and it was already so wildly popular that it was touring? Granted Aziraphale was grateful for its popularity, it was a splendid play after all. The last time he’d spoken to- to him- he’d gushed about it in great length, been so despondent over its seemingly lacking public interest. Before he’d needed to head to Edinburgh anyway.
But it was the way it had gained popularity, and who had been responsible for it. It was guaranteed to be a play talked about for the ages, one of the greats.
All done by a demon who “preferred the funny ones.”
A demon who cared about the wellbeing of children, who asked too many questions, who always seemed to be there when he needed him.
The ticket set itself on fire. Aziraphale yelped and used a quick miracle to put it together again, as though nothing happened. Worriedly glancing around, he noted that nobody was there. Nobody had seen. He was safe- with the books and he needed to stop this terrible, awful, bad, bad, bad line of thinking.
“Hello Angel! I was told you’d be here!”
Well. So much for that.
Aziraphale smiled before he could help himself.
Crowley sauntered up to him, collapsing into a chair opposite. He put his feet up on the table, smirking as Aziraphale tutted, waving his hands towards Crowley’s heeled shoes. “What on Earth are you doing here, Crowley?”
“Just swooped in for a small temptation, not staying long,” Crowley shrugged, putting his feet back down on the floor when Aziraphale gestured for him to. “Heard you were setting up a library for the boffins and thought I’d come and see it for myself. Last time I saw it, it was basically in ruins.”
Aziraphale’s smile became an outright beam and he wiggled excitedly. The theatre ticket before him remained forgotten. “Isn’t it wonderful? Thomas Bodley is entirely devoted to restoring it to its former glory and then some. There’s talk of a knighthood in his future, though he keeps waving off the gossip. I personally think the preservation of knowledge, especially at this scale, deserves a knighthood.”
Crowley hummed non-committedly. “Listen,” he said, leaning forwards, his voice going conspiratorial. Aziraphale moved closer on instinct, expecting some kind of Arrangement talk. But that wasn’t what he got. “I’m mainly here to give you a tip off. I’ve heard whispers. People planning to steal some of the more valuable books. No idea why they’d want to do that, but thought you should know anyways.”
“So you came out of your way to tell me this?” Aziraphale asked, touched. He glanced down at the ticket in front of him. The realisation hit him.
Kind.
Crowley was kind. Of course he knew this about him. He was kind to the children he’d saved from God’s flood, and kind to that elderly couple in Anatolia, and to the widow who lost half her family to the plague, and many, many other occasions throughout their time together.
But it was another realisation that Crowley’s kindness extended to him. Not only extended to him, it seemed as though Crowley went out of his way to- to care for him.
It was doing things to Aziraphale’s chest that he didn’t care for. Things that were dangerous to consider for even a second.
Crowley shrugged, glancing over his glasses. “I just didn’t want you knowing I was in town and assuming I had any part of it. Wanted to save myself the next century of nagging.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. More to keep up with appearances than anything. “Of course.”
He glanced at the table in front of him, performed a quick and quiet miracle. “Well, seeing as you are in town, I just so happen to have an extra ticket to the theatre tonight. If- if you would like to join me?”
He really ought to remind his heart that it didn’t need to beat to keep him alive. It certainly didn’t need to beat so loudly in his ears as Crowley leaned forward some more. They didn’t do this, at least Aziraphale didn’t. This was outside of the arrangement. They didn’t have an excuse to spend time together this time. Crowley would invite him to places, usually somewhere which had inordinate amounts of alcohol and they would drink until dawn. Not once had Aziraphale invited Crowley to do something outside the bounds of the arrangement.
And yet… and yet.
Aziraphale wanted to. He wanted to spend time with the kind demon who infuriated him, who asked so many questions, who made him laugh.
Who cared about him.
“Sure, angel. Sounds great,” Crowley nodded, and Aziraphale offered him a ticket with a shy smile. “What’s the play?”
“Hamlet,” Aziraphale said, simply, matter-of-fact, like one word didn’t carry a million thoughts and feelings and doubts behind it.
Crowley’s arm froze mid-reach. “Oh.”
“I know you prefer the comedies,” Aziraphale hastened to reassure him. “But the play has improved a great deal since you last saw it, and you did cause it to be this popular, however inadvertently. It might- might be rather umm- rather insightful, to see the fruits of your labour.”
“Ngk,” Crowley stuttered. There was a moment where time seemed to freeze, where Aziraphale held his breath and waited for his acceptance.
The moment passed and the strange tension in Crowley’s shoulders eased. He grabbed one of the tickets and stared at it briefly, the very portrait of nonchalance. “Well, I suppose I don’t have anything better to do.”
“Wonderful!” Aziraphale chirped, making his way to stand, Crowley followed suit with a groan. “And I appreciate the information regarding the library.”
“Don’t mention it,” Crowley mumbled, tucking his arms behind him as his shoes clacked on the floor, he ducked his head low. Oh dear, was he embarrassed? And why did Aziraphale find that so endearing? “Really.”
Aziraphale pressed his lips together, miming a locking gesture as he threw away the key. “Mum’s the word.”
Despite the fact that the demon’s eyes were covered by darkened spectacles, the angel could tell he was rolling his eyes similarly to how the angel had moments before. The smile remained on Aziraphale’s face. He knew it was all for show, else Crowley wouldn’t have agreed to his company.
They closed the door behind them and whilst Crowley stood guard, Aziraphale made it so that no would-be thief would cross the threshold of the library that night. Such information would require more in-depth, human-like plotting to prevent. He would need to tell Bodley.
But for the moment, he was content to stroll through the lovely Oxford streets (not quite as diverting as London, but it would do), side-by-side with Crowley, catching up on things since they last saw each other. The sun was a friendly dubloon shining down on them, the summer not as sweltering as the last had been. It was perfect theater-going weather.
And Aziraphale was happy. Content. Though he knew he ought not to be, and every ounce of self preservation he had was currently being forced into a tiny box in his mind, he was still at ease.
When they approached the theatre, Bodley and his wife Ann were already present, and greeted him fond as ever. Crowley hovered behind him awkwardly.
“Ah, yes, may I please introduce Mister Crowley,” he turned, nodding to Crowley, who bowed easily at the couple. “He is in town for a few days on business and will also be attending tonight's performance.”
“And how do you know our dear Mister Fell, Mister Crowley?” Ann asked with a charming eyebrow raise, sizing Crowley up but in the kindest way possible.
It was then that Aziraphale remembered something. Something he’d said the last time they’d been at a production of Hamlet together. Something which needed rectifying.
For the first time ever, it needed to be acknowledged, and he was (at last) brave enough to do so.
“Crowley is my- my friend,” he said. “He has been, for a great many years.” Even that didn’t seem to be enough. He hoped the word carried enough weight.
It appeared it had, for Crowley was smiling at him. Not a smirk, not a grin, but a real- genuine smile. It was gentle and soft and kind, and it filled Aziraphale with more warmth than a mulled wine in mid-winter.
And as they stood, pressed together a little closer than necessary throughout the play, Aziraphale mused that he would continue to call Crowley his friend, if Crowley continued to look at him like that.